Troubled Sights
by Watermelon bones
Summary: A young Lancre witch has premonitions of a killer stalking the streets of Ankh- Morpork... *FINISHED*
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Discworld is owned by the illustrious Mr. Pratchett.

Azalea Mukkins stood over a counter that was in bad need of varnish, inspecting a cup of tea she had just prepared. She sighed, noting that the tea seemed to be a strangely dark shade of brown and had little bits of tea leaves floating in it. Azalea had never been able to cook food of any kind. Even a task as simple as making tea eluded her. She would under steep it, or over steep it, or the bag would split open and give the liquid a gritty and all together unpleasant texture. The latter two seemed to have happened in this instance.

          Azzie's mother had often lectured her about her culinary skills. When her daughter showed no signs of improving, she had hoped the child would at least marry someone rich and never have to cook. That was, after all, why she had named her Azalea (which no one, under threat of physical harm, called her; anyone who valued life referred to her as Azzie.) Such a name sounded so regal, fit for the wife of a duke or prince. Of course, Mrs. Mukkins was most likely trying to compensate for her own failed dreams of royalty. One could not imagine her disappointment when Azzie did not marry a prince or duke. In fact, she did not marry anyone. She turned out quite differently than anyone had expected.

          Azzie Mukkins was a witch.

          It wasn't by choice. Azzie had a career in warfare planned from the time she was seven years old. Being quite a tomboy, she had never played with dolls or tea sets, preferring instead to practice swordplay with a stick. Her mother, along with her aunts and various other female relatives, had hoped she would outgrow this._ Just wait until she grows up a little,_ they would say,_ and then she'll get interested in boys and such and forget all this solider nonsense._ They were wrong. Azzie never developed much of an interest in the opposite sex, which might have been partially due to the fact that because she had frizzy red hair and freckles galore they never developed an interest in her. Her desire remained with the warrior's calling.

          But one day a strange old woman had come to her village. All the young girls in the town had been gathered in the market square for this woman to see. All the girls except Azzie. She didn't give a hoot about what some old biddy wanted, so she had run off to the woods. 

          The woman had found Azzie in the forest. Up in a tree, to be exact. She had known exactly where she was without even looking. The lady had told her that she'd better get down from the tree, the whole neighborhood could see up her dress. Azzie had reminded the old woman that the whole neighborhood wasn't here. Then she'd asked what she wanted.

          And she had received the shock of her young life.

          That was when she'd learned she was a witch. At first she'd thought she was joking, crazy, or both. She couldn't be a witch. Magic had always seemed like such boring, tedious work.

          But the woman was not joking. She even seemed to feel that Azzie should feel a sense of pride, or at least of duty, at such a discovery. What Azzie did do was rage at her mother about insane old people being allowed to run loose in the hope her mother would see things her way.

          Mrs. Mukkins did not see things her way. She had agreed to the apprenticeship at once, thinking of it as an opportunity to curb her daughter's tomboyish ways. Azzie had been sent packing with the old woman, who was quite miffed at being called insane.

          And so Azzie stood, in her cottage, looking down at a failed cup of tea.

          "I think the tea's ruined." She said, turning back to her companions.

          The older of the two sniffed in a way that clearly stated she had expected Azzie to be unsuccessful. Azzie scowled, but the woman took no notice. This woman was Granny Weatherwax, who commanded an immense amount of respect, or at least fear, from the locals. Nobody in their right mind crossed Granny Weatherwax.

          "Doesn't bother me." The other witch seated at the table said cheerfully. "Gives me an excuse to try some of our Shawn's brandy. He pinched it from the castle." She produced a flask from a pocket in her dress and took a swig. She then wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Weak. Probably store bought."

          This connoisseur of fine brandy was Nanny Ogg, a powerful witch in her own right and matriarch of the enormous Ogg clan. 

          These were the two witches who had appeared on Azzie's doorstep that morning. They seemed to feel it was their responsibility to assuage Azzie's skills, and had spent most of the afternoon pointing out her lack thereof. Not to mention her inability to grasp the fine art of tea making.

          "Does anyone want something else to drink? Juice, maybe?" Azzie asked in a final attempt to please her guests.

          "Nah," Nanny Ogg said, standing up from her place at the table, "Me and Esme had better get going, anyway." They left without another word.

Azzie slumped down into a chair, absent-mindedly pulling the sleeve of her dress back into place as it started to slide down her shoulder. All the dresses she owned were largely oversized. She had bought them after being told several times that witches _had_ to wear black. She'd ordered all of the garments at one time, preferring to get it over with quickly instead of spending hours searching in some market for something she didn't even want. The dresses had arrived exactly as promised, except for one thing.

 They were about three times too large. They were so big she had to wear clothes underneath them or risk exposing a little too much skin, and her undergarments, to anyone who cared to look. 

She had tried returning them but the seamstress she purchased them from had mysteriously disappeared. So, rather than buy new dresses, she had resigned to rolling up her sleeves five times in order to use her hands and had kept the ridiculously baggy outfits.

Azzie didn't even like black. It made her skin look pale, her hair look even redder, and her freckles look blotchy. She wore it simply because people expected witches to wear black, and apparently there was no use in being a witch if no one knew it.

But she wouldn't wear the hat. It may have been a witch's status symbol, but it was also two feet high and pointed. That was simply too much.

Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg had only been gone a few minutes when there was a knock on the cottage door.

"Come in," she shouted.

Heavy boots thudded across the floor as the visitor approached. Azzie twisted in her chair to see who was calling.

"Hello Azzie." The man said cheerfully.

The arrival was Henry Willington, possibly the only person (besides her mother) that knew Azzie's middle name. She had known him since they were children.

She had met him when he had climbed the roof of her mother's house to rescue a stray cat and had fallen off into the rain barrel. Such an accident was not unusual for Henry. He seemed to have a habit of embarking on some good deed and winding up with egg on his face, sometimes literally.

Henry was, or had been, an artist by trade. He was actually very talented, and Azzie had never been able to understand why he didn't leave the Ramtops and try to sell his work. The people of Lancre didn't exactly have an appreciation for fine art.

But Henry's family did not approve of his creative doings. The Willington's were soldiers and had been for generations. Why they had moved to Lancre, a kingdom whose only contribution to warfare was an army knife, was anyone's guess. They wanted Henry to go to Anhk-Morpork and join the city watch. The fact that he wasn't at all violent didn't seem to enter into their minds. Neither did the fact that he was a complete klutz who was probably more likely to injure himself than anyone else. Azzie hated to think what would happen once he got a sword in his hand.

Being an obedient son, Henry had agreed to comply with his parent's wishes. Although he showed no outward signs of discontent, Azzie had noticed that his paintings had taken a decidedly melancholy turn. They suddenly all consisted of dark, gloomy colors and depressing scenes.

"I ran into Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax out in the lane."

"Really?"

"Granny Weatherwax told me to tuck in my shirt." Henry said with a small grin. For some reason, he seemed to find the old witch's often scathing comments amusing. He was the only one that did.

"So what's wrong with you?" he asked.

"What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with me."

He snorted.

"I'm just in a bad mood, that's all."

He looked doubtful.

"Well what about you? You're always pretending that everything's all right. At least I show my emotions!" she accused in an attempt to wipe the skeptical expression of his face. It was extremely annoying.

He just shrugged.

She gave up. It was impossible to make him mad.

"I saw Bridget at the market today." Henry said casually. " She said she might come by to see you."

Azzie shuddered at the mention of her cousin's name. Bridget was, in her mother's opinion, everything a girl should be. Pretty, feminine, and maddeningly cheerful. Azzie couldn't stand her.

"Thank you. That was just what I needed to hear."

Henry looked sympathetic. "Sorry, but I thought I should warn you." Even Henry, who bore a grudge against no living creature, wasn't fond of Bridget. Bridget was as girlish as a girl could be, and Henry was shy around most women, so he was never entirely comfortable with the blonde ball of energy.

A situation that was made worse by her constant flirting. If a girl smiled at Henry he turned ten shades of red, and Bridget was far too touchy- feely to just smile. It was so obvious it was disgusting (as Azzie so often mentioned to people who decided she was just jealous, but didn't dare say it or risk having to chase their head down the street.)

"Hi Azzie!" an excited, oh-so-happy voice called. Bridget danced into the cottage without knocking. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" she asked, twirling around.

"Lovely." Azzie grunted. And it was looking better by the second.

Ferns and various bracken crunched under the weight of Granny Weatherwax's boots.  "I tell you, Gytha, that girl has it. She just don't know it yet."

Nanny Ogg nodded. "Felt it the moment I stepped in the door. It's why Myrna Kilter chose her, you know."

"In one so young as that…" Granny Weatherwax's voice trailed off. "Could cause trouble. She won't know how to control it."

 "The witching should help."

"I just hope it helps enough." Granny Weatherwax said, a slight hint of foreboding edging her voice.

The forest closed around them.

Azzie and Henry sat in front of the fire, watching the flames snap and crackle (as well as pop). 

The night had come on fast. Thankfully, Bridget's visit had been brief. Henry had spent most of the day helping Azzie repair the thatching on her roof. The rain had been leaking through as of late.

          Azzie was, at the moment, feeling rather giddy. A half empty bottle of wine sat beside her. She'd found it after cleaning out the cupboards the previous day. It must have belonged to the late Goodie Kilter.

          Azzie had no idea how long it had been there, but it didn't matter. It wasn't as if wine could go bad.

          Henry was lying on the floor. "So, " he said, "What'd you wanta do?" his voice was getting slurred.

          Azzie fought the urge to giggle. "I don't know." A thought nagged at the back of her mind. There was something she was forgetting…

          It occurred to her, bright and shiny in the fog of her memories. Mrs. Carter. She'd asked Azzie to check and see if her worries about her husband were founded. He'd been disappearing for long periods of time, and she had become convinced he was seeing another woman. Azzie would never have agreed to look into the matter, but the Carters were old family friends. This meant Azzie was hardly fond of Mr. Carter as it was.

          Azzie smiled for a moment. Scrying and flying on a broom where about the only things she was good at when it came to witchcraft.

          Of course, it did occur to her that now was probably not the best time for scrying. However, that small fact seemed unimportant.

          She walked to a desk and rummaged through the top drawer. A round, lopsided glob of glass was tucked away behind a stack of paper.

          "What're you doing?"  Henry asked, following her.

          "A favour for someone."

          Most of the cottages furnishings had belonged to Azzie's former benefactor. The formidable lady had never been one for glitz and glitter. The glass had been leftover from the work of a local window maker.

          Azzie set it on the table. She unwound the power, somewhat unsteadily, she knew. 

          The globe did not fill with light as it was supposed to. The power stopped. It didn't vanish, didn't dissipate, just stopped, as if frozen. 

          At first Azzie put it down to the alcohol. But there was a darkness growing around her. She could see it at the corner of her eyes.

          "Henry?" she said, aware that panic was taking hold.

          He replied, but she could only hear a loud buzzing. It filled her ears with aching volume.

          And then the sound of rain.

          She blinked. It was a city street, or more accurately, an alley. She could feel the wet cobblestones under her feet.

          A hunched figure stooped ahead of her. She tried to move forward, but it seemed her body wasn't listening.

          Metal reflected in the moonlight. A woman was sprawled out on the ground, eyes vacant and staring.

          There was the sound of flesh tearing. The rainwater swirling around the cracks and dips of the street took on a red tinge.

          The blood.

          Oh gods, the blood. She could smell the blood.

          Azzie screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

Lancre's ever present wind whistled under the crack in Granny Weatherwax's door. Its shriek faded to a low moan as it moved on to torment leaves and complicated hairdo's elsewhere.

          Out in that wind, a falcon soared high above the canopy of the forest. It dropped in elevation, making a landing on a branch swinging back and forth in the gale, and looked out across the landscape. It blinked.

          Granny sat up. She placed her card carefully on the mantle and swung her feet over the side of the bed.

          There was a cat outside. She could hear it yowling in the off key melodies of cats everywhere, but only barely. The wind nearly drowned it out.

          No sooner had she stood up than was there a furious hammering on the door. She pulled it open to reveal the Willington boy, disheveled and disordered from the bluster. 

          The faint aroma of wine hung about him, but he was not drunk. To the contrary, he had the look of a man who had seen something to sober him up very quickly.

          "Granny Weatherwax, you've got to come quick!" he panted. His face was flushed red, and he was short of breath. He had obviously run all the way. "Something's wrong with Azzie."

          The witch grabbed her hat and wrap. "What happened?" she asked, although she already knew.

          "I don't know." Henry said desperately. "One minute she was fine and the next she was shaking and screaming…and… I didn't know what to do!"

          Granny ran towards the drop, broom in hand. "You go home!" she shouted over her shoulder. She leapt astride the broomstick. As usual the magic didn't take for a minute, and she fell into the chasm, nearly hitting the tops of trees.

          When it caught she swooped up and over Lancre, soaring higher and faster than the bird she had only just been. The torrents of wind made it a little difficult to fly, but she hadn't been using the broomstick for cleaning all these years.

          Azzie's cottage was a small, shingled speck below. Granny Weatherwax spiraled downward, skidding to a stop in the garden. She strode in through the open door.

          There was a huddle of people in the room. One was a thin, fidgety woman with bright red hair the exact color of carrots. Granny recognized her as the girl's mother. The other two were miscellaneous male relatives.

          She leaned her broom against a wall. They moved out of the way silently.

          Azzie herself was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to her chin. She was trembling, her eyes wide and darting. The child looked terrified.

          Granny knelt before her. She could see the grip fear had on the girls mind. Very gingerly, she released it. Headology could be a useful thing.

          The young witch looked around, confused. "I … but…" she had stopped shaking.

          Her mother rushed forward, wailing. "Oh Azzie, I thought – "

          She was cut off abruptly as the girl leapt to her feet. "Murder!" she shouted, stumbling forward frantically.

          Her family gaped at her, taking a step back, except her mother, who stood still with her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were welling up.

          "Murder." Azzie said again. "There's been a murder! I saw it… I …" she stopped. "But not here." She said quietly.

          Granny cleared her throat. "This girl needs to rest now." She said. "So you'll all be going home."

          "But – " Mrs. Mukkins protested.

          "Home." There was no room for argument in the word.

          They left reluctantly, Azzie's mother stealing tearful glances at her daughter. Granny Weatherwax shut the door behind them.

          She turned back to the girl, who had eased herself into a chair and was sitting stiffly at the table. She fixed her with a stare.

          "We are going to have a talk."

          The early morning rays of the sun lit the horizon. Or they would have, had the day not been as rainy and miserable as it was.

          The day was a few things. It was cold. It was stormy. It was also early.

          Commander Vimes of the Ankh – Morpork City Watch lit a cigar. The smoke curled up and faded into the wind. He put the packet back in his helmet.

          The body lay a few feet from him. It was covered under a cloak provided by one of the officers, to keep out the rain and lessen the stares. Nobody needed to know what it hid.

          And nobody should, Vimes thought grimly. The woman, a former member of the Seamstresses guild, had been nearly dissected. The cuts had been made with icy, calculated precision, her organs laid carefully beside her.

          At least he knew it wasn't a doctor. 

          Vimes felt a distinct sense of unease as he looked down at the blanketed heap. He'd been patrolling the streets for many years and seen a great deal of gruesome things. But nothing like this.

          Most murders had a reason behind them. Robbery, jealousy, a long-standing grudge. This one was different. The thorough, almost ritualistic aspects suggested something else altogether.

          Someone had done this because they enjoyed it.

          Azzie walked quickly through the village market, staring fixedly at the ground ahead of her. The people milling about the stands stared and whispered. Some even poked their heads out of windows to get a glance.

          What had occurred the previous night was something she didn't particularly want as common knowledge. So naturally, everyone knew. Her mother had probably gone home and told anyone who would listen.

          Her head was spinning. She couldn't seem to get her thoughts to sit still for even the smallest fragment of time. Sight? Her? It didn't make any sense. It made less than sense.

          She reached Henry's house just in time to see him head out the door. "Wait!" she shouted, jogging towards him.

          He looked surprised to see her. "You're up?" he asked. "Are you sure you should be? Shouldn't you be in bed, or something?"

          She shook her head. "I'm fine, Henry."

          "I was just about to go see you. I would've been earlier, but your mother said you needed rest."

          "I'm fine." She said again. She peered at him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly unfocused gaze. "Henry, did you sleep?"

          He shrugged. "I was worried." He looked at her in a concerned way that was very embarrassing. "Are you sure you're okay?"

          She sat down on the step. "No." she sat silent for a moment. "I'm sure you've heard what people are saying."

          "Anything from you had a fit to something about a poultry spell gone wrong. The rumours aren't very clear at this point."

          "Granny Weatherwax says I've got the Sight."

          "Sight?" he sat down beside her. "Like visions?"

          She nodded. "Like visions."

          He paused, and then asked the question slowly. "Is that what –-"

          "Yes." She answered shortly, in a tone that stated no further discussion would be allowed.

          "Oh." He said. "Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, or something?"

          "Okay." The stability of tea in a warm house seemed like a good idea.

          Even more so when somebody else was making it.

          Vimes sifted through the papers on his desk in an effort to find Cherry Littlebottom's report on the seamstress. His attempt was in vain. Like so much before it the desk had simply engulfed the paperwork. He would have to ask her himself later.

          There was a knock on the door. "Come in." Vimes shouted absentmindedly.

          Nobby stood there with an envelope in his hand. "This just arrived, sir."

          "What is it?" Vimes grunted, shoving aside a pile so he could see.

          "Dunno. S' got your name on it."

          It was true. Vimes's name was printed neatly across the paper in black script. He tore it open and unfolded the letter.

          He scanned the words quickly, tensing as he read. "Nobby?"

          "Yessir?"

          "Where did this come from?"

          Nobby looked confused, or as confused as someone of his appearance could. "The post."

          Vimes lay the letter down. His eyes fell on a line near the end.

          _In two weeks time, another one dies._

Azzie walked through the woods, glancing from time to time up at the thick tangle of trees that surrounded her. She felt jittery, panicky even on paths she had known since childhood. Something rustled in the underbrush and she quickened her pace.

          She found herself wishing she had stayed at Henry's, or at least taken her broomstick. The familiar forest seemed to have shadows and angles it hadn't before. Azzie could imagine unfriendly eyes staring out at her from every possible hiding spot.

          Gods, she was getting positively paranoid. She wondered if the rest of her life would be like this. Did getting visions do this to everyone?

          It was the knowledge that he was still out there, she realized. Not that she thought he would come after her, or anything so foolish. The killing hadn't taken place in Lancre, she knew. The little country didn't have cities of such magnitude. The best the nation could manage was large townships, and those were rare.

          But he could do it again. And she could see it again.

          In the meantime, Azzie decided, she was going to run the rest of the way home.

          The desk was a solid, antique one; the kind of craftsmanship that lasts. Paper was stacked neatly in one corner, the sheets stark white against the rich brown finish.

          The writer paused, then placed his quill down and examined his handiwork. It was satisfactory.

          He smiled. It was time to see how well Vetinari's terrier could hunt. 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry about the delay, but I've been without Internet and had a case of writers block. I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed. It's much appreciated.

The pot bubbled noisily as Azzie stirred, the spoon getting a little hard to move as the broth thickened. In fact, the broth was getting a little too thick. It was starting to look decidedly unappetizing.

          She decided it was finished. The stew sizzled as she poured it into the bowls.

          "Here." She said, handing Henry a bowl.

          "Are you sure its done?" he asked, poking at it with a spoon.

          She nodded, moving the pot to the side so the remainder wouldn't burn. "I'm sure."

          She turned to gauge his reaction. He was looking apprehensively at the concoction. "Its not that bad…" he mumbled through a mouthful.

          She sighed. So much for the fail-safe recipe. 

          "You don't have to eat it, you know." She said, pulling up a chair at the table.

          He put it down with the barest show of relief and sat down across from her. "I leave tomorrow." He said, suddenly interested in what the floor looked like.

          "I know." She picked at a spot on the tablecloth and thought frantically for a way to change the subject. She found none.

          "Where will you be staying?" she asked at last, succumbing to the topic of conversation.

          "A boarding house." He replied, "I'm not sure which. I'll find one when I get there, I guess."

          "Oh." She said. "That's nice." 

          "Azzie, are you sure you'll be okay when I'm gone?"

           "I'm not that desperate for companionship." She said lightly, leaning back in the chair and avoiding his eyes.

          "You know that's not what I meant." He said quietly.

          "I should be fine." Azzie was struck with the sudden urge to describe the vision. The way the air had felt, the alley had looked. The way the blood had formed tiny rivers on the rain soaked ground.

          So she did.

          It helped somehow.

"The papers of a regular sort, sir, just like the ink." Cheery said, holding the letter up for inspection. "Nice penmanship, though, and good spelling."

She handed it to Angua, who sniffed gingerly along the edge. She shook her head. "Nothing."

Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Sorry."

He sighed, looking down at the slip of paper on the table before him. _Two weeks._

The words kept coming back to haunt him. Each passing day brought them that much closer to the deadline. It was bad enough working under your own timeframe. Having one set by a murderer was bloody torture.

The worst part was the fact that the little bastard was taunting him. He was enjoying this little game, setting the rules…

"I want you and Carrot on the case." He said to Angua. "Find out what you can."

In the meantime, he would wait. He had to.

Agnes set the teapot on the table, and eased herself into the chair with the wobbly leg, gingerly expecting a collapse. She had a feeling Perdita was looking forward to it. Nanny Ogg poured herself a cup. The spoon clinked as she stirred it.

"How's the young Seer getting' along, Esme?" she asked Granny Weatherwax, who sat across from her.

"Haven't heard anything." Granny replied.

Neither had Agnes. She'd been keeping an ear out for local gossip, but it seemed to have quieted. Or people just aren't telling you, Perdita insinuated.

"Been a long time since there was one in these parts." Nanny Ogg said. "Last time was when I was just a girl. Can't seem to recall what happened there. Didn't she marry that fellow from Skund?"

It was hard to believe that there was one now. Azzie was an unlikely candidate, with her flaring temper and bountiful freckles. She seemed very anti-mystical, somehow. The universe had a strange sense of humour, Agnes decided.

"No." Granny said in response to the other witches question. "She hung herself."

A silence filled with too much meaning stretched out between them. We can only hope for such a happy ending, muttered Perdita in the back of Agnes mind.

She told Perdita to shut up and went to get the biscuits.

The carriage was a wobbling, rattling heap that looked as though it was about to fly apart at any moment. It was parked at the side of the road, accompanied by an impatient driver that kept pointedly looking at his watch.

Henry stood in front of it, the few boxes that held his belongings scattered around his feet. Clothes, and some of his paintings. He was only taking those that he liked best. Azzie wasn't sure what would happen to the rest of them. Get thrown on the trash heap, probably.

"Well," she said, looking around. "Have a nice trip."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll try."

She kicked at a stone on the ground. This farewell thing was a lot harder than it looked. And more awkward.

He fidgeted about, seemingly in the throes of some important decision. He looked as though he was on the verge of saying something, and then stared at his feet instead. "Azzie?" he said finally.

"Yes?" she prompted.

He straightened up. "I …well, that is… never mind." He finished with a sigh. He stepped forward and hugged her instead.

"Make sure to write me." She said, her voice slightly muffled against his shirt.

"I will."

"You'd better." She said in a mock scold. "Or I'll hunt you down in that city myself." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, grinning when his ears started to turn pink.

The coachmen had loaded Henry's luggage onto the carriage. He made an irritated noise.

It pulled away in a torrent of creaking, leaving Azzie alone on the roadside. She waved until the carriage was out of sight. Turning, she walked slowly back up the path, in no hurry to get back to the empty cottage.

She felt aggravated with herself for being so sentimental, but it was amazing how quickly you could miss someone.


	4. Chapter 4

Vimes stared out the window, watching an unattended cart roll by on the street. The Watch house was nearly empty as the shifts were changing. If he had any sense, he would have left long ago.

He should be home, he knew. Sybil would certainly have dinner on the table by now. He was too occupied to be hungry.

Just a few more minutes.

One day. One day and time was up. Two damn weeks and they were still no closer to solving the thing. And they weren't the only ones. Word on the streets was that the Agony Aunts were every bit as confused.

He should have left something, some trace, some something. But he hadn't. Just a dead woman, cut up like…

Vimes shook his head, officially deciding to stop thinking. It wasn't doing any good. He was only becoming increasingly frustrated.

He gathered up his cape and headed for the door. A good nights sleep might clear his head. He'd start over in the morning.

Azzie stood back and surveyed the constant mess in which she lived. While she didn't go so far as to actually let the cottage get unclean, it had slipped past the borders of untidy.

So she went to the closet and came back armed with a rag and a broom, she attacked.

It was a distinct sign of boredom. Azzie never cleaned except in her most absolutely restless moods. She hadn't been very active the past fortnight.

An hour later she sank into a chair, dusty and exhausted. For the first time in her occupying it, the cottage was spotless. It was a little frightening.

The cleaning frenzy had given her an appetite. She forced herself to get up and dragged her resisting feet towards the pantry. She pondered her choices.

Some cake and preserves would do. She opened a jar that was at the forefront of the shelf and sniffed delicately. It was still good.

She put a kettle on and laid out a plate and cutlery. As she chewed her mind wandered. The preserves had been a gift from Henry's mother, who had been made well aware of Azzie's cooking misadventures by her son. He'd – but no. She didn't want those memories brought up. Thinking of Henry caused uncomfortable pangs.

The meal was finished before the water was hot. She busied herself wiping down the already gleaming table until the kettle whistled.

She picked it up and the noise ceased. She moved to pour it but stopped.

Something was unquestionably and indefinably wrong. The feeling that time had stopped swept over Azzie. The sounds of the cottage; the clock ticking, the brush of her dress against the floor, all seemed faded.

There was no preventing it. That same painful buzzing deafened her as the vision took control.

An alley again, this time by some kind of elaborate and ornate building. Azzie squinted. A theatre, maybe? She couldn't tell, having had little experience in identifying grandiose structures.

Her mind reeled as she tried to imprint any significant details into her memory. A crunching alerted her to movement ahead.

The man's clothes were well tailored and fitted, the expensive kind. His cloak was a deep red.

As red as… Azzie felt faint. The blood pooled this time, having no rain to carry it away.

She couldn't help herself. "No!" she cried out, as much in anger as in fear. She reached her arm out towards the woman.

As quick as it had disappeared the room swam back into focus. Azzie was gripping the counter so hard her knuckles were white.

She let go and hissed in pain. Her hands were scalded.

She was trembling and sickened, but at least she had managed to stay on her feet. No one would have to run for Granny Weatherwax this time.

There wasn't anyone to fetch the witch even if she was needed. Azzie was alone. A sort of terror gripped her. Alone.

Azzie sat down on the floor, fighting the tears that threatened.

The grandeur of the Opera house was slightly spoiled by the sight of the body that lay not so far from it. Fancy stonework couldn't make up for that.

She was like the other one; a seamstress, down on her luck and desperate. Her eyes stared sightlessly up at Vimes, who found he could not meet them.

He turned away, clenching his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. It hadn't been enough. For all their investigating, for all their searching and scrutinizing, it still hadn't been enough. Another dead woman, another unsolved crime.

Vimes was angry in a way that could be described only as consuming. When he got his hands on that twisted little bastard…

A small thud alerted him that there were more important issues to be attended to. He looked at the newest member of the watch, who had just slid into a sitting position.

The boy had discovered the victim half an hour before. He seemed to still be in shock. 

Vimes crouched beside him. "Lance- Constable Willington?"

He blinked and looked up, still unfocused. "Yes, sir?"

"I think you should go back to the watch house." He paused for a moment, and then decided to send the boy home. They could spare him, and he would be of no use whatsoever in the condition he was in. "Take the rest of the day off, if you'd like."

"Oh. Thank you." His voice was faint and unsteady.

Vimes moved to leave, but a hand on his arm stopped him. "Does it happen often?"

"What?"

"This. Does it happen often?"

Vimes looked steadily at the young man. The Watch was draining him. He'd seen it in new recruits before; that empty, exhausted expression. Willington was quiet, contemplative. A person like that was not equipped to handle finding murder victims in back alleys.

Vimes cleared his throat. "That depends on how you look at it." He said.

Vimes sat heavily down at his desk, rubbing his temples. His head was not being kind to him.

Fred Colon knocked on the doorframe. "Busy, sir?"

He grunted an affirmation.

"Well, its just that this here came for you…" the sergeant brandished a folded piece of paper, fastened with wax. "But if – "

          Vimes nearly bowled him over. "What? What is it?" he tore through the seal under the astonished gaze of Colon. It was blank, except for three words.

           _Four days, Vimes._

          The letter was jammed carefully in the door hinge. It was slightly grimy, streaked with earth and filth, but Azzie could still read her name scrawled across the back in Henry's spindly handwriting.

          A smile flickered across her face. Henry was faithful in his correspondence. He wrote even when there was nothing significant to say.

          She opened and unfurled it, letting the empty envelope fall to the table. The words were scribbled as though written in great haste. It was a short message, only a paragraph long.

          Her hands shook as she read. She examined it again, to be sure.

          _It was just like you said, Azzie. Everything was just like you said…_there was a sense of panic to the narrative.

          The victim. The location. The cause of death. His description mirrored her vision from the previous night.

          Azzie tossed the letter carelessly away. It had told her all she needed to know.

          What she was doing was reckless. It was dangerous. Everyone she knew would disapprove, Granny Weatherwax most of all. The old witch had told her to keep her business to herself, to not run about trying to prevent premonition after premonition.

          This was hardly a deterrent.

          She pulled a small bag from the closet and packed it as full as she could with extra clothing and food. Her coin purse, sadly, jangled very little as it was added. Lancre operated more on trade than cash.

          Her broom was standing by the door. She picked it up, holding it under one arm as she pulled the door open. She hesitated for a moment, glancing back.

          The hat hung on its hook, displaying quite a collection of dust. It hadn't been worn for ages.

          She took it along as an afterthought. People were more likely to respect a witch than they were Azalea Mukkins, divination practicing village girl in a state about events yet to come.

          Ankh- Morpork. She was going to Ankh- Morpork.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a grim looking place. Boarding houses usually were, particularly those the city supported with a never-ending stream of business. They ranged from uber-respectable to shambling and so dilapidated that the term 'house' became a questionable one.

          There was a light on in an upstairs window. Angua was willing to bet she knew whose it was.

          It had been her idea to question the young watchman. He had a chance of remembering the smallest details; the ones long dissipated by the time the actual investigation began.

          Carrot knocked on the door. A woman in flannel nightclothes answered.

          "Oh, Captain Carrot, its you. What do you want so late at night?"

          "Hello Mrs. Collins." Carrot smiled broadly. "Sorry to trouble you."

          That was Carrot, knowing everyone. The landlady smiled back. "Oh, it isn't a bother."

          "We were wondering if we could speak to Henry Willington." Angua said.

          "Of course." Mrs. Collins opened the door wide. "Come right in."

          They climbed the rickety stairs to the appropriate room. Angua had been right. It was the one with the light on.

          Henry was sitting on the bed, sketching something. He put it down and stood up when they came in.

          "Am I missing a shift?" his forehead creased in puzzlement.

          "No – " Carrot started.

          "Am I fired?" Henry seemed to brighten up at the prospect.

          "No. We wanted to ask you a few questions about … "Angua paused. " … what happened a few days ago."

          "Oh." He looked at the ground. "What did you want to know?"

          Angua looked around while Carrot questioned. The room had an almost standard appearance, bland sheets, a plain rug, and no curtains.

          One thing set it apart. There were groups of paintings stacked against the walls. Their diversity was amazing. Imaginative landscapes, bright still- life's, even the occasional portrait. Several of these portraits had the same subject, a red-haired girl with a wide smile.

          "That's all." Henry said, sounding defeated. "That's what I remember."

          "Did you do these?" Angua asked, curiosity taking hold.

          "What?" he looked at the artwork. "Oh. Yes, those are mine."

          "Who's this?" Angua held up one of the girl, done in soft colors.

          "Azzie." Said the boy almost wistfully. "A friend from back home."

          "Friend?"

          His defensive response was ruined slightly by the sudden coloring. "Yes, _friend._"

          "Thank you for talking with us." Carrot said, standing up. "I'm sure it will help with the investigation."

          "I hope so." 

          The door closed behind them with a click. "So?" Angua asked as soon as they were out of hearing range. "Anything new?"

          "I'm sure he's really a very honest person – " Carrot began.

          " – But there's something he isn't telling." Angua finished.

The first thing Azzie noticed was the smell. Granted, the countryside sometimes had its own peculiar odor of manure and unclean farms, but it was tolerable. This was just plain terrible.

          She slung her broom over her shoulder and made sure her hat was on straight. Then she reflected upon her complete lack of a plan.

          Henry was somewhere in the city. Azzie supposed she could hunt him down and see if she could share his room for a few days. Just until – 

          Until what?

          What exactly was she going to do? Search for the killer? And then what?

          She tried to clear her head. It didn't work.

          At first she thought it was just her busied thoughts, and slight headache causing the sound. It wasn't.

          Time stopped.

          Her broom dropped to the stones beneath her feet with a clatter, but she did not hear it. She was staring at something no one else could see.

          The man squatted on his haunches, already well into his routine. There was a satisfaction radiating from him that Azzie found disgusting. White gloves covered his hands; impossibly clean for what he was doing.

          Then his victim moved.

          Her mouth moved soundlessly. A neat red line showed were her throat had been cut.

          The fear vanished instantly, replaced by boiling anger. Azzie screamed obscenities she had rarely heard and never used, things her mother would have fainted at the mentioning of.

          She blinked as the picture snapped out of focus. Her words bounced off the brick buildings, echoing and fading away.

          There was electricity to the air, a tingling thickness.

          And she knew.

          Azzie picked up her broom and ran.

          Sergeant Fred Colon was in the midst of discussing which pub offered the best free pint with Nobby Nobbs when screamed curses cut through the relative quiet.

          "What'd you suppose that was, Fred?" Nobby asked.

          "Dunno. We'd best go look."

          They moved towards the sound in that special run that moves cautiously, preparing to go twice as fast in the other direction if there was a need. Like to avoid getting stabbed, possibly.

          One thing was for sure. Someone was in a rage.

          Azzie reached the woman just in time to see her choke on her last breath. One minute alive; one minute not.

          The killer was gone. Probably scared away by her own idiotic yelling, Azzie told herself. She knelt beside the body, fighting the compulsion to apologize.

          She was sitting in blood, but didn't care. She touched the woman's face gently, as though to prompt her to respond, to disprove her own death. The skin was as warm as anyone living.

          Footsteps, and rapid ones at that, approached from the distance. Azzie was on her feet in seconds.

          So he was coming back. He was going to regret that.

          Azzie swung her broomstick wildly and furiously at the shape that lunged at her from the darkness. There was a squawk as she felt it connect.

          She took a step back to strike again. The heel of her boot slid out from underneath her. The broom flew from her hand as her head hit the pavement. Gods, it hurt. Suddenly everything else was forgotten in wake of the pain.

          The world faded to black. 


	6. Chapter 6

Azzie opened her eyes slowly. They seemed unwilling to respond. The room faded in and out in time with the throbbing of her head. She stared up at cracked gray walls and a dripping ceiling.

          It was cold. She pulled the sparse blanket tight around her and shivered. It did little to help.

          She turned her head to the side. There were bars. She blinked.

          What in the hells – oh.

          She remembered, unfortunately. The events of the previous night ran through her head, making it hurt even worse. Thinking was not an activity she wanted to do at the moment.

          Azzie could hear voices outside her cell, faintly. One was lisping slightly. The other had Ankh- Morpork written all over it. She rolled over and pretended to sleep.

          "She got quite the knock on the head." There were footsteps now. "Lucky she didn't get hurt worthe."

          "Gave Nobby a good smack, I know that."

          "Corporal Nobbs will recover, I'm sure." This voice was new. It seemed to have authority over the other ones. They called it sir.

          "Did anyone else notice the hat?" asked the second speaker in a hushed whisper. "That means she's a witch, it does."

          "There were witches in Uberwald." It seemed to be a foray into memory. Azzie knew she recognized the accent from somewhere.

          "My Mum said never to trust witches. Might turn you into something…unnatural."

          Despite herself Azzie felt a spark of righteous indignation. She sat up and glared. "What was that about witches?"

          There were three men in front of her. They all wore watchmen's uniforms, but that was where the resemblance ended. One was exceedingly scruffy and had an expression that suggested he was permanently angry. Another had a face that was strangely scrambled, and could have been called lopsided. Definitely an Igor.

          The third was heavy and red faced. He looked as though he was contemplating the many definitions of unnatural.

          "Well?" she snapped, tossing off the blanket and standing up.

          He panicked, eyes darting frantically back and forth. "Err…I'll…I'll go do what you said, will I, Mr. Vimes?

          Without waiting for an answer he darted off, moving surprisingly quickly for a man his size. The man called Vimes watched him go with something akin to amusement.

          He pulled a cigar packet from his helmet and lit one. 

          Azzie felt her headache worsen.

          Vimes studied the girl sitting in the elderly chair usually stored away in the corner of his office. She had the air of one short on patience and with an abundance of stress. Never a good combination. He should know. 

          He tossed an envelope onto the ever-expanding pile of papers that was his desk. It nearly slid off.

          "You don't happen to know what that is, do you?"

          She stared at him blankly. "What?" 

          He sighed. "I didn't think so." The small white square mockingly announced his name in beautifully penned script. The message ran through his mind. _Right under your nose, isn't it, Commander?_ "What were you doing in the alley?"

          "Having a nice nighttime stroll." She snarled.

          Vimes bristled. He had exactly no time for this. And he told her so. "If all you're going to do is hold me up – " 

          She leapt to her feet, eyes blazing. "Hold _you _up? I see what that …that…" she seemed to falter. "…I see what he does, every single time he does it! Do you have any idea what that's like?" her voice was rising fast towards obvious hysteria.

          Vimes felt understandably disconcerted, being fairly inexperienced when it came to calming panicked females. "There's no need – why don't – sit down!" it ended in a roar.

          She dropped into the seat suddenly drained. Her fury vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I see them die." She said softly. "It won't stop until he does."

          Vimes looked up sharply. "You're a witness?"

          "No." she sounded exhausted. "Not a witness." She was mute for a few more moments before asking, "Can I leave now?"

          Her permission came in the form of a nod. There was nothing to hold her on, even if he'd wanted to. Discovering a body wasn't a crime. 

          He was left alone, in his mess of an office, wondering what had just happened. 

          "This is it." Henry said, swinging open the door to reveal a room sparse in its furnishings.

          "It's nice." Azzie said, or rather tried to say. She was cut short by a yawn.

          Mrs. Collins had been rather testy until Henry had claimed Azzie was a relative. She wondered why landladies always seemed to be called 'Mrs.' when there was rarely a Mister about.

          She dumped her belongings on the floor and stumbled in, fatigue making every movement require too much effort. She did notice a few paintings in the collection that were new.

          "What's those?" she managed to ask, pointing. The person in them looked incredibly familiar.

          He turned his trademark red. "Oh." He muttered. "Uh, I dunno. You're a good subject, I guess." 

          So that was who it was. Azzie wasn't sure how to react. Forget reacting, she thought. She'd react in the morning. In the meantime the bed looked incredibly comfortable, so she took advantage of it.

          "What time do you want me to wake you?" Henry asked while making himself a bed on the floor.

          Azzie did not hear him, as she was already snoring.

          Nanny Ogg topped off her mug, adding a little something stronger to warm the bones. She smiled as spiders in the rafters fainted from the fumes. It was satisfactory.

          The door to her cottage slammed open and in strode Granny Weatherwax. An irate Weatherwax too, brandishing a piece of paper.  

          "Look what that girl has done.' She fumed, waving her evidence around. "Just look what that girl has done, Gytha."

          Nanny took the document and read it. It was a letter from that Willington boy to Azalea Mukkins. She sighed and responded in a way that was characteristically Nanny Ogg.

          "Oh, bugger."


	7. Chapter 7

Azzie bolted upright in bed, clutching at the sheets that should have been there.

          They were not, however. She was sitting on a street so cold that the chill was prevalent even through the fabric of her dress. Her legs shook under the strain of supporting her as she stood.

          It was a vision. Of that much she was sure. There had been no rushing sound, no sensation of paused time. Something was different.

          Perhaps she was getting used to it.

          Or maybe she had just woken up in the middle of one. She had a feeling that would be the case. Azzie was about as likely to become accustomed to having visions as one would to being burned alive.

          She caught a glimpse of a familiar red cloak sweeping around a corner. She followed.

          The murderer was present, but he was alone. No victim.

          This wasn't the same as the other times.

She looked up slowly, eyes widening, and so occupied she hardly noticed the woman smiling beguilingly at her future killer. 

Azzie recognized the building.

It was colder out than it had been in her vision. Azzie huddled against the freezing wind. It tore bitingly at her hair and clothes, numbing her skin.

Still she ran, wishing all the time that she had brought her broom. She cursed the gale that slowed her progress. The broom would have gotten her there faster, but in her haste she had not considered the benefit.

She reached her destination in time to she the prostitute, as she obviously was, get pushed against the wall. The woman tried frantically to scream as her breath was forced from her throat.

He raised the knife.

"Stop!" Azzie screamed, raising her hand.

The would be victim struggled out from underneath his grasp during the distraction. She darted into an adjoining alley. 

Her exhausted liberator leant heavily against a lone, scrawny tree, trying to get her lungs to function again. It was a daunting task.

The killer turned towards her and for the first time Azzie saw his face. It was a mildly handsome, pleasant featured face. At the moment it was twisted by rage.

"You ruined it." He hissed, taking a step towards her.

She suddenly regretted not having brought Henry with her. Maybe he had followed. She had trod all over him enough.

"I warn you." She said, her voice sounding as confident as she felt. "I'm a witch."

He sneered. "What have I to fear from some country fool? You'll turn me into a frog, will you?"

Azzie suddenly felt rage welling up inside that was akin to what she had experienced upon finding his last fatality. How dare this wretched example of a person judge her? How dare he?

The fear was gone.

The man lunged at her, and as he did, his arm burst into flames.

"I told you."

Vimes rubbed his blurring eyes. He had been looking at this one slip of paper for entirely too long. The watch house was empty except for himself. His clock said that it was nearing four o'clock in the morning. 

Too late for this. Too late for anything, really.

He had been hoping something would occur to him if he thought long and hard enough. Nothing had. The words were every bit a puzzle as they had been.

Right under my nose, is it? He thought. As he did, the message clarified.

He straightened. It couldn't be. Even that little bastard, crazy as he was, wouldn't try that. Would he?

Vimes' concentration was abruptly torn away as something outside his window exploded into fire. 

Azzie sniffed. There was a smoky odor in the air far too strong for what she had done. She turned around.

The pathetic sapling that had fought to grow in a very anti-environmental city had been transformed into a torch by the spell. It blazed up into the sky.

Oops.

The tree was burning, but Vimes paid no attention.   

So that was what he was going to do. Kill one Right in the Yard; show everyone how much smarter he was than some copper.

Not tonight.

Vimes was surprised to see the young witch standing beside the bonfire. For a moment he wondered if his earlier assessment hadn't been wrong. Maybe they were working together.

Then he saw how the killer looked at her as her beat the flames down from his scorched arm. There was no partnership there.

"Don't. Move." Vimes said, raising his crossbow and pointing at the man. "You're under arrest."

The man had the gall to laugh. "Am I?" he asked, turning towards the Commander.

Vimes almost dropped his weapon in shock.

The face was unknown to him, and could have belonged to anyone off the street. But his eyes…

Vimes recognized that milky blue gaze. "You're a Rust."

The man smirked, confirming the suspicion. "Allan Rust, to be exact. Strong family resemblance, isn't there? My brother – "

He never finished the sentence.

An arrow flew silently through the air and imbedded itself in his chest with absolute precision. Those pale eyes lost any likeness to humanity they ever had and went blank. He crumpled.

Vimes spun around and searched for a form against the backdrop of the city, and found nothing but the dark, dark night. He cursed.

Clumsy footsteps approached, loud in the tense hush. Henry Willington slowed to a halt, panting. "Azzie, what –"  

He stopped and stared. "What in the hells?" the young man went quiet before posing a question. "Mr. Vimes?"

"Yes?"

"I quit."

Somewhere in the shadows, an assassin slipped out of his hiding place. He went back the way he had come, through little known alleys and secret passages. His work was complete. 


	8. Chapter 8

These places were always dim, Vimes noted. It was as though the elite couldn't afford proper lighting.

A servant opened the door and the Commander was ushered through. It closed behind him with a click.

Lord Rust sat at his desk, seeming not to notice. But of course, he did.

"Mr. Vimes," he said in a bored drawl. "What can I do for you?"

"You know well why I'm here, Rust."

"I assure you I do not."

Vimes took a deep breath and launched into it. "Your brother died a few days ago under very suspicious circumstances – "

"Ahh, yes." Rust interjected. "Poor Allan. Always so troubled."

The man's placid tone rankled Vimes nerves.  He glared. "I think you were involved."

"Me?" Rust said coolly. "Why ever would you think that?"

"Handwriting doesn't match."

It could have been Vimes's imagination, but Rust appeared to stiffen. "Excuse me?"

"Allan Rust was guilty of murdering three members of the Seamstresses Guild. He sent the watch a letter before every one. The handwriting wasn't his. We got hold of a shipping order he signed. It didn't match." He said the last three words carefully and clearly.

Leaning forward and putting his hands on the desk he said, "I think that's where you came in. Somehow I don't see your dear baby brother doing much without you being in their somewhere. You controlled him, didn't you? You controlled him and then you had him killed."

Visible cracks were beginning to appear in Rust's icy veneer. "What's the matter, Vimes?" he snapped. "Angry your precious Watch couldn't solve it in time?"

"So." Said Vimes, straightening up. "That's what this is about. Discredit the Watch. Show the world what fools we are?"

The complete calm that defined Ronald Rust vanished. He leapt to his feet. "That," he hissed, "is exactly what this is about! The nobility of this city wants to be rid of you, Vimes. You are an insult and an annoyance. The very impertinence of Vetinari making you a duke – "

"You were willing to kill just to get rid of a nuisance?"  Vimes asked in disgust.

"Yes, I was!" Rust relaxed and regained his composure. "You will never prove a thing. All you have is the supposed scribbling of a madman."

"Actually, now that you mention it…"

Vimes pulled something from his pocket. He put it on the table and pressed a button. Rust's expression froze in wide-eyed horror.

An impossibly tiny head poked out of the box and spoke. "Bingey bingey beep! I am the MK I personal sound recorder. Would you like to hear a playback?"

Fred Colon looked grumpily what should have been curry with swedes. It had not been a good night.

First he'd had to actually chase an unlicensed thief halfway across the city, mainly because he was the victim. Bastard had picked his pockets. During the pursuit the sergeant had twisted his ankle and was now walking with a pronounced limp.

To top it of, Goriff had confused his order with someone else's. Colon wondered what this red goopy stuff was supposed to be. 

Somebody cleared their throat in front of him. He looked up.

And dropped a forkful of his unknown dish on the floor.

Three witches, complete with black garb and pointed hats. Not one, not two, but three stared down on him. One, who was smiling widely, reminded him strangely of his mother in law.

"Yes?" he managed to croak.

A thin one with piercing blue eyes was staring at him in a way that made being skinned alive look comparatively pleasant. "We're looking for Henry Willington. He here?"

Colon tried to reply, but his throat was sort of constricting in a manner that didn't allow for words. "Ghglsn?"

Fred Colons night had not been good. By all evidence so far, it wasn't about to improve.

The coach stopped with a rattle and Azzie wondered how it had held together this far. 

Henry pulled the bags out and tossed Azzie hers. Her hair, always in permanent disarray, was made worse by the Lancre wind. She'd missed it.

Her companion stood silently with a foolish grin on his face, staring at everything like he hadn't been back for ten years.

"Happy?" she asked, amused.

He nodded, and then suddenly looked entertained himself. "I think you've got a welcome party, Azzie."

She started at the sight. Her entire family was bearing down on her, Bridget in the forefront.

"Oh, Azzie!" she wailed. "We were so worried. Running off like that without telling anyone."

Azzie tried to back up but bumped into Henry and was cornered. "Oh, gods." She muttered as her cousin threw her arms around her.

"I swear," she sniffed. "I am never going to let you out of my sight again." The whimpering subsided as she saw Henry. "Hello, Henry."

Henry gave a halfhearted wave.

The trapped witch tried in panic to untangle herself from swarming relatives. It was not effective.

Fear she had felt in that alley with Allan Rust didn't hold a candle to the terror of being confined in a small space with her family.

It was nice of them to leave such a mess, Azzie decided. She picked up a fruit rind someone had left on the floor.

She'd managed to vacate the cottage by threatening to have another vision. All hints concerning her family's visit had gone unnoticed. They weren't much for the subtle.

Only Henry remained, sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of the fire. He was dozing.

She tapped his arm. "Henry, get up. C'mon, you're falling asleep."

He opened his eyes and looked around. "Everyone's gone?"

Azzie nodded. "For a while, now."

"Oh. I should probably get going too, huh?" he mused.

She shrugged. "I guess."

Azzie studied the cottage, with its bare walls and bland furnishings. It said nothing about the people who'd lived here, nothing about their lives. Not one of them was remembered.

She had wanted them gone, but now…

It looked too barren. Too empty.

It had always been that way. Even when Myrna Kilter had lived there. She too had always been alone.

"She was very lonely, wasn't she?" asked Henry, as though reading Azzie's mind.

"Yes." Said Azzie. "Yes, she was."

He stood up and took her hand. "Don't worry." Henry said with a soft smile. "You won't be."

And he was right.


End file.
